


Holiday

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [10]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD - Freeform, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Forbidden Love, Frottage, John feels guilty, John is a Very Good Doctor, Kissing, M/M, Naked Cuddling, Sickfic, Victorian, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 23:56:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5268674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fact is that I sleep so much better when he is in my arms, where I can assure myself that he is well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holiday

“Say that you—a doctor—have a patient who is experiencing a burning sensation, and is exhibiting shallow breathing and a dangerously low heart rate, and you know that that patient has been gardening.”  
  
“All right.” I nodded. I was accustomed to being used as his sounding board.  
  
“You ask if he had been handling monkshood.”  
  
“Monkshood. Yes. Good.” I did understand that connection.  
  
“He says no and eventually succumbs.”  
  
“Well, then.” I was rather baffled. What was his intent? I eagerly awaited his explanation.  
  
“What neither of you know is that monkshood is also known as wolfsbane or the Devil’s Helmet.”  
  
“Is it?” I was surprised. And then I understood. “So a few simple questions—have you been handling a plant with—well, whatever it looks like—or even looking at plates in a book on botany—might save a life?”  
  
“Exactly. Of course, the irony for this particular example is that the best treatment is atropine—which is found in the deadly nightshade.” He laughed rather too gleefully considering the subject matter.  
  
“You are a wicked man,” I warned, smiling a bit at him.  
  
“I have an enormous amount of research to do. You _must_ come with me. Let’s go on holiday!”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Yes. You often say that we’ve been in the city too long. A few weeks in the countryside will be extremely rejuvenating.” He certainly seemed quite eager. “Would you like that? We could leave tomorrow.”  
  
“I’m to be in charge of all the travel and lodging arrangements, I presume?”  
  
“Yes, of course,” he smiled affectionately at me.  
  
I sighed at his assumption but… yes, I admit it. His line of inquiry was absolutely intriguing, and I was eager to pursue it. And a few days getting London out of our lungs was certainly not a bad idea.  
  
“Oh, all right,” I acquiesced. “So, what is the goal of our holiday?”  
  
“Collecting data, of course,” he replied in some bewilderment. “I thought I had made that clear.”  
  
“That’s a fairly broad area—‘data’.” I could not help the teasing tone in my voice. “Perhaps you could be a bit more specific.”  
  
He paused and I waited to see how he would react—it would set the tone for our entire journey. To my great relief, a look of pure delight appeared on his chiselled visage. “Oh, John, you are absolutely correct. I rather jumped ahead. Come let us make ourselves comfortable and I will explain my intent.”  
  
As he often did, he gathered cushions and created a comfortable cradle on the floor in front of the fire. He sat himself easily in it, patting the pillows next to him. “Come down here,” he requested prettily. I did so eagerly. Sprawling out on the floor with him, both of us carelessly (and comfortably) half-undressed, is always lovely. When in that situation, it felt very natural to be very close to one another; to touch—and to talk. The talks we engaged in whilst in our nest were unlike any of our usual conversations. There were no clues to discern; no deductions to reveal. In fact, we would speak of anything but cases and murders and robberies.  
  
Now I removed my waistcoat (which was, I admit, already unfastened) and tossed it carelessly on a chair; my boots landed somewhere near the sofa. Sherlock was even further along in his state of dishabille, as he often was, with nothing but trousers and one of his more worn dressing gowns half off his shoulders.  
  
Sometimes he drove me mad when he went about like that.  
  
But now I sank gratefully onto the soft cushions. I had had the sense to gather maps and paper and pencil, and I organised them now to be convenient for when I was called upon to be either geographer or clerk. He immediately rolled onto his side and curled around me like a kitten.  
  
“I wish to gather information about plants that grow naturally throughout the kingdom that are known by different names in the various regions, along with descriptions—phrased in a way that would be useful for someone to describe the foliage without knowing any of its names—and symptoms of exposure to the poisonous ones.”  
  
“That seems a bit grim.”  
  
“Not just lethal effects,” he clarified.  
  
“Oh?” That surprised me a bit. He did tend to dwell on the deadlier effects of—well, almost everything.  
  
“More mild symptoms can be useful to us, as well. For example, say there is a robbery—something is stolen from a house set in a garden. The burglar gained entry to the house via a window that is surrounded by a particular plant. We note that that plant can cause skin irritation. We proceed to the nearest public-house and observe amongst the customers one fellow who is showing signs of discomfort. How convenient! Here is a doctor ready and willing to examine him and offer some relief.”  
  
“Ah. And in doing so, expose proof that it was he who entered the house.”  
  
“Precisely!”  
  
“And the information would be organised or cross-referenced by possible symptoms and by appearance?”  
  
“Yes. Plants with groups of three leaves; low-lying ones and climbing vines—to assist in identifying the culprit.”  
  
“And symptoms would be treated the same way? What an incredibly useful reference—I cannot even estimate the lives that would be saved or simply eased by such a tome. You are brilliant.” He had, by this time, rearranged himself so that his head was in my lap, and I bent down and kissed him.  
  
“I like that,” he commented.  
  
“Being brilliant or being kissed?”  
  
“Both, of course.”  
  
At that point our studies were interrupted by rather a lot more kisses. [note from Sherlock: _Distracting you always results in something very nice._ ]  
  
So it was some time later that I finally pulled away from him. Determinedly I took up one of the maps. “Where do you want to go first?” I asked, quite sternly. “We must have a direction or we will have no idea even what train to take in the morning.”  
  
He laughed and laid his hand gently over mine for a brief moment, and if I had a way to preserve that moment so I could live it over and over whenever I felt low, I would never be unhappy again.  
  
But then the moment passed and the hand slid down to the map I held and one long, slender finger tapped it decisively. “There,” he declared, and we began our planning.  
  
*  
  
“But who shall publish our findings?” We had been working for nearly two hours. My hand was actually becoming a bit fatigued from the extensive note-taking—attempting to keep up with Sherlock made me consider learning shorthand, as they use in the courts. I dropped my pencil (he had carefully re-sharpened it for me at least three times) and stretched my arms and back. I had intended my question mainly to slow down his constant stream of ideas, but my Sherlock took it—as he took almost everything—quite seriously.  
  
“I have been musing on that, John,” he said sincerely, drawing his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms around his legs. When he did that he made me think of a schoolboy, but what he said next certainly did not make me think that way. “And I believe that it is time we co-authored something,” he said, and he was so serious and decisive and sincere and honest that I felt tears prick at my eyelids. For Sherlock Holmes to offer to co-author anything—including an advertisement in the agony column—was… well. It was not just rare. It had quite literally never occurred before. Not even when he and his brother had worked together—I won’t dwell on the case here in my personal notes—and in doing so had discovered a nefarious use for—  
  
I digress.  
  
“Co-authored?” I asked, mainly to clarify—had I heard correctly?  
  
“Yes. I am not certain if it would be more appropriate for _The Lancet_ or… well, it depends on what we discover, does it not? And you must take the lead role in actually authoring it. You have the medical credentials and a great deal more experience writing for publication than I. My monographs have not been terribly widely read,” he added more quietly. I was genuinely surprised at his modesty.  
  
“That is because you are so brilliant that no one else can fathom what you are talking about,” I told him with both great affection and great admiration. I meant what I said. I had, of course, read every single word that he had published and a great deal of what he had not.  
  
“Let us discern the details of our arrangement after we do our research,” I added, redirecting him. “We might not discover anything worthwhile at all.” I rose and stretched my legs.  
  
“Nonsense. This is a perfect opportunity to utilise our distinct areas of expertise to the benefit of a great number of people.” He yawned.  
  
“I believe that a change of scene will be refreshing as well. Very well, then. When do you wish to set out?” I inquired as I withdrew my Bradshaw from my desk drawer.  
  
It was excellent timing that at that point we had been interrupted by Mrs Hudson, bringing in a light supper. I informed her of our plans. “A holiday—how nice! At what time would you be wanting breakfast?”  
  
I held up a finger, quickly flipped the worn pages of my book, and told her what train we were going to take. She nodded and headed back down the stairs with plans for a filling breakfast and a hamper for the train already forming in her head.  
  
“And whilst we are away…” I had hesitantly added, sotto voce, before she departed, glancing at Sherlock as he shuffled through our notes, dealing them out on the floor like some odd game of Patience.  
  
“I’ll give the place a good, thorough cleaning,” she had murmured back.  
  
Completely engaged in his studies, I do not believe that he was even aware that she was in the room. Even if he had been, however, I wondered if he would have bothered to at least pull his dressing gown a bit more completely over his bare chest. I addressed him rather loudly. “We must rise early, you know.”  
  
He glanced up at me in utter bafflement. “And?”  
  
“Come eat some supper, and then I think that we should go to bed. We can pack in the morning.”  
  
“Oh. Yes, John.” He obediently rose and joined me at the table.  
  
It was rather odd. For someone who was as self-possessed as Sherlock Holmes was—for a person who cherished and also sometimes flaunted his blatant disregard for social niceties such as manners—he could occasionally be quite bewilderingly sweet and compliant. I seemed to observe this behaviour in him most often when he was, as he had just been, completely lost in his own thoughts. I suspected that at those times, he really did grow completely unaware of what was occurring around him, and his obedience was the result of not really knowing what else to do.  
  
He did eat something, with much encouragement. He seemed sleepy and distracted and I finally gave up. “Have you had enough to eat?” I asked him. He nodded. “Then it is time to go to sleep. Come along.” I rose and, grasping his hand in mine, pulled him gently toward his bedroom.  
  
He was not wearing very much, as I have noted, but I would still enjoy removing what remained of his clothing. He surprised me, therefore, by pushing my hands away. “No,” he protested.  
  
“No?” I was, I admit, a bit hurt.  
  
“You first,” he responded with that sweet, shy smile that I adored. I had abandoned my tie and collar at some point during the evening, so now he carefully drew down my braces and unfastened my shirt. Gazing directly into my eyes, he removed my trousers and finally my vest and drawers.  
  
And then, as he often did, he ran his sensitive fingers across and along the scars that marred my body. I do not know what it was about them that fascinated him so. He would peer at them and touch them—always very lightly. He never caused me pain when he did this and he never said anything. I had supplied him with the basic information about my injuries and subsequent condition upon our very first meeting, of course, and after that, he never pressed me for details.  
  
This was one of those unspoken topics between us—as was his abhorrence of certain foods and my abhorrence of drafts.  
  
In a way it was rather puzzling—that we acknowledged these quirks in each other but never directly addressed them. I suppose some of it had to do with being gentlemen of our class. Some of it had to do with me being John Watson and him being Sherlock Holmes. But no—we never actually discussed them. When served certain foods, the unspoken agreement was that I ate them off his plate. When seated at a questionable table, the unacknowledged movement meant that Sherlock sat in the drafty seat in order to shield me from it. Is this what married people sometimes did for one another? Mary and I had not. I state that simply and honestly. When presented with ingredients for which she did not care, Mary would refuse to eat until I procured something else for her. When presented with a draft, it was my role as husband to accept it and damn the ache in my multiple wounds.  
  
Reading that last paragraph, I realise that I am perhaps a bit more bitter about certain elements of my marriage than I have previously acknowledged.  
  
But here—only Sherlock and I will ever read this and he already knows all of this—so here I can state quite plainly that yes, my scars hurt. The skin is rough and taut and they always feel uncomfortably tight and sometimes itch and sometimes burn—and they cover more of my body than I have ever alluded to in my stories. (That there is an inconsistency in my published works regarding my injuries is a direct result of my publisher’s desire to obscure the more unpleasant aspects of my experiences; having one wound was brave and patriotic; having multiple crippling injuries that continue to cause me distress was apparently unseemly and a bit cowardly.)  
  
Because of course the scars do not exist simply on the surface of my skin. The wounds and therefore the scar tissue runs directly through me. In the case of my shoulder, the bullet itself did the damage, entering at the juncture of my shoulder and chest, where the physical evidence of its path is actually quite minimal, but the exit wound shattered my shoulder blade. I do not wish to dwell on the effect of the bullet and bone shards as they spread from the site of the impact.  
  
In the case of my leg, it was the sepsis that caused the majority of the long-lasting damage, and two ill-conceived and poorly executed surgeries—attempts to remove the infected flesh—left the muscle more damaged than the bullet initially had. I credit the recovery of my overall health after the illness that followed to an initially strong and vibrant constitution. It had taken a great deal of time, but I had at last recovered my strength and endurance, and so now was left only with the results of the physical injuries. That is enough to endure.  
  
They particularly bother me when the weather turns bitter. Everything feels tight and dry, and results in a vile pain that robs me of my mobility, my concentration, and my patience.  
  
I have earned those scars. I served my queen and my country in circumstances that cannot be properly be described—not by an adequate scribe such as myself and not even by those who seem to plunge their readers into entirely different worlds. There is no way of diminishing what I—and countless others—have endured to protect the ideals—  
  
As I write this, I find myself distracted by my unpatriotic musings, but on the evening I have been describing, I was distracted in a much more pleasant way—by my darling.  
  
He certainly distracts me. He is so very, very beautiful. Yes, I admire a comely woman. Without a doubt. I do not distinguish—I do not care if a woman is high borne or low. Is she a countess? A house maid? I absolutely do not care. I am attracted first to the physical—a certain feature; a particular eye or hair colour. And then, beyond that—I admire intelligence.  
  
Yes. That is it. I realise that in my published works I seem to dwell on surface details—how well a woman is dressed or the delicacy of her features—but what really attracts me is a quick mind and quicker wit and—  
  
And Sherlock possesses all of these features in abundance.  
  
He is—without doubt—beautiful. His eyes; his lips—his impossibly high and sharp cheekbones and dark curls and thin but strong frame. But so, so far beyond that is his brilliance.  
  
I cannot adequately—even here in my most personal musings—convey what he does to me when he is brilliant and decisive and somewhat condescending and critical—for most of the times when I see him like that, he includes me. That is—he astounds others, but with a wink of one indescribable eye—he lets me know that he thinks that it is all old news to me. That I, like him, have deduced the story; have uncovered the clues and seen the patterns and made the connections and am victorious.  
  
He includes me, each and every time.  
  
That is what makes him beautiful.  
  
[There is a note, written sideways along the margin here, in Sherlock’s hand: _You are beautiful and brilliant and I do love you, John._ ]  
  
What was my point? I had one. Truly. You see? Even in retrospect, he is distracting.  
  
Oh, yes. Going out of town together and eventually co-publishing our discoveries.  
  
Travelling. Damn.  
  
Travelling was sometimes somewhat tedious—not the travelling itself, as Sherlock was usually an interesting companion on a long train ride. It was the more domestic arrangements that were causing me distress. The fact is that I sleep so much better when he is in my arms, where I can assure myself that he is well (or if he is not that I am near to attend to him). Where I can feel his heart beat in his thin chest. Where I can hear him breathe and taste his skin and gently kiss his closed eyes and—  
  
We had gotten so used to our special arrangement at home, I had realised, that we were a bit spoilt. I disliked the idea of spending several nights not being able to fall asleep with him in my arms, but with servants apt to enter to make up the fire in the morning or any other reason at any time, it was simply not possible. We could not risk exposure in that manner.  
  
I must have disturbed him as I tossed and turned, trying to put the unpleasant thought of a cold and lonely bed out of my mind. Finally, I felt him sit up. “What is upsetting you?” he demanded. He sounded sleepy and petulant, and I knew that if the flame was higher I would be able to observe him sitting next to me, a beautiful frown on his angelic face as he peered down at me.  
  
“It is about us travelling,” I admitted. “Lie down.” He did, and I curled up close to him.  
  
“Explain,” he pursued. “You seemed keen on the idea of a holiday earlier. Why are you so hesitant now?”  
  
“It is not the idea of a holiday that is causing me any trouble,” I began. “Not exactly. Shut your eyes and I will explain.” I took a deep breath and reached out, finding and stroking his mussed curls. He nearly purred in delight. “It is _this_. It is that we have become so accustomed to sharing a bed that I am not certain that I would be comfortable falling asleep without you in my arms now.”  
  
“You slept alone in your own bed two nights last week,” he pointed out.  
  
“That was because you were not here to go to bed,” I responded a bit angrily. “You stayed up for three days and were out doing I know not what until dawn.”  
  
“I made you angry?”  
  
“Yes, you did, a bit. I was concerned for you—as I always am when you go out on your own that way.”  
  
“I am heartily sorry, John. I did not intend to cause you concern.”  
  
I sighed. He was so very heartfelt in his apology. “I know you didn’t. You never do. However, I do wish that perhaps you would not continue your habit.”  
  
“I shall endeavour to refrain in future,” he declared, and his sincerity made me chuckle a bit.  
  
“Liar,” I responded fondly.  
  
“Probably, yes,” he admitted.  
  
With that, he fell silent and I found my thoughts returning to my original concern.  
  
“John?”  
  
“Yes?” I responded in a low voice. “I thought that you were asleep.”  
  
“No. I have been considering what you said.”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“Do you really wish to go away with me?” he asked wistfully.  
  
“Oh! Oh, Sherlock! Yes—most assuredly. Leave it to me to make the arrangements, all right?”  
  
He was silent.  
  
“And yes,” I added. “I told you the absolute truth. I cannot sleep without you in my arms now.”  
  
I wrapped myself around him and we kissed until everything else was forgotten and we were both able to drift into a deep sleep.  
  
*  
  
“See? No problem,” Sherlock declared victoriously.  
  
“Yes. You are very clever. Shush.”  
  
He sprawled on his stomach on the bed, positively smirking at me.  
  
I tried to be stern with him, but I gave it up as a job badly done. He was just too beautiful and graceful and charming and lovely as he rolled over onto his back and tipped his head thoughtfully over the edge of the mattress to peer at me upside-down.  
  
He was jubilant because the inn we had discovered had just one room available, and that room had only one large bed. I accepted it with a show of being inconvenienced whilst subtly stepping on his foot to stop him from shouting in exultation. The past two nights had been dreadful. As there were only single rooms available at that particular hotel, we had not only been in separate rooms but several doors away from each other. It had been simple enough for him to stay in my room during the evening, but when it came time to sleep, he slipped quietly out and down the hallway to his own room. We had both felt the emptiness of our separate beds far too keenly for our liking.  
  
Now we were safely behind the door that I had closed and locked after the hall boy had deposited our bags, made up the fire, and departed, and I was able to feast my eyes on him; to take in every inch of him in a way that I simply could not do when we were in public. Otherwise we were enjoying our holiday quite a bit. It was lovely to get out of the crowded, dirty city and into the clean, quiet countryside. It was a pleasure to speak to local inhabitants with their quaint accents. The food was fresh and lovely and we both found our appetites enormous.  
  
Yes. Our appetites.  
  
“We will need to go down to supper,” I pointed out, sitting on the bed next to him.  
  
He tipped his head up so he could look at me.  
  
“There is a great deal of time before then,” he pointed out, attempting to affect an innocent tone. “What shall we do to pass the time?”  
  
*  
  
I will never grow tired of this—of drawing Sherlock’s clothing off; of gazing at his glorious ivory skin and dark curls and slender waist and hips and that mouth. “There. Is that better—all bare?” I whispered. I had stripped myself as well and now I pushed him gently back to lie against the pillows. He spread his arms and smiled up at me.  
  
“Much better,” he agreed sweetly.  
  
I stretched myself over him, up on my hands and knees so we were not yet touching. He whimpered and wriggled engagingly. “What do you want?” I asked, bending my head down and kissing his forehead.  
  
“You,” he answered simply. “Please.”  
  
I did not need to be enticed any further. I lowered myself until we lay, skin kissing from shoulder to foot.  
  
Then I began to move myself against him as my mouth captured his to smother our moans of pleasure.  
  
*  
  
It had been a brilliant few hours. I had discovered a—even in these most private thoughts, I find myself hesitating to put it to paper. I am not certain why. [note from Sherlock: _Interesting. Our society frowns upon any sort of carnal pleasure, let alone that which we share. You can describe the most brutal of crimes but you hesitate to describe the feel of our mouths upon one another. I see that you overcame your reticence. Excellent._ ]  
  
I had discovered a spot on the underside of his organ that, if I flicked it with my tongue, caused him to become completely incoherent. It was brilliant that I, John Watson, had rendered the great Sherlock Holmes utterly speechless.  
  
I plan to use this to my advantage a great deal in the future.  
  
I absolutely adore bringing my love to the heights of ecstasy, and that afterwards he becomes so very affectionate and soft and I can hold him in my arms and kiss him gently and stroke his hair—well, that is the entire point, is it not? To raise him to the very highest and then catch him as he drifts down, so gently. Sometimes, though, things were not gentle at all. The things that Sherlock can do with his tongue still astound me. I have not yet asked how he developed this skill. Perhaps it is from all the talking that he does? [note from Sherlock: _If you want to know, you simply have to ask._ ] At that particular moment, however, I had no inclination to inquire into the history of his romantic development. As far as I know, he has never been with anyone but me. [Sherlock: _No one—ever. Just you, John, now and always._ ]  
  
We were lying together, bare skin against bare skin. He and I were both a bit dazed and languid and perfectly happy to lie in each other’s arms. I occasionally brushed my lips across his; or across his cheek or fingers. At one point he (I was leaning up against the headboard and he was lying against my chest) grasped my hand and very carefully kissed each fingertip. I could have fallen asleep then—and very possibly slept forever.  
  
Then he sat up a bit and twisted to face me. He looked puzzled. “What is the matter?” I asked.  
  
“John,” he responded hesitantly, a rather ferocious scowl marring his broad forehead.  
  
“What is it, my love?” I inquired gently. Was he tired? Cold? Ill? Bored?  
  
“I believe that I am… that is, I am fairly certain…”  
  
“Sherlock?” He was utterly baffling me with his hesitance.  
  
He took a deep breath and stared at me, those beautiful eyes piercing to my very heart. “John… I believe that I am… hungry.”  
  
It took me a good five minutes to stop laughing, untangle us from the bedclothes, and push him gently towards his bag to get dressed. “Ridiculous man,” I chuckled, giving him one last kiss before we opened our door and became “Holmes and Watson” once more.  
  
*  
  
The supper was simple but just fine and filling, and it was accompanied by some quite nice beer.  
  
Later that night he was in a relaxed, playful mood—a direct result of the lovely afternoon followed by the filling supper. He had had, to be honest, a bit more to drink than was usual for him. It was having no negative effect. On the contrary, I found him sweet and pleasant and amusing, divulging the secrets of the diners and servants around us in a low, confidential tone. It was difficult not to reach out and trap his hand with mine on the table.  
  
Finally we returned to our room and changed into our night time clothes. I gently drew him into bed with light kisses and promises of time just to float in the nest of comfortable eiderdown mattress and pillows; blankets and quilt. We fell asleep wrapped around each other.  
  
I awoke a few hours later, realising that I had not turned the gas down. I simply lay there, watching him breathe slowly and deeply, until he stirred a bit and opened his beautiful keen eyes and smiled sweetly as he caught sight of me watching him.  
  
“You are so sweet when you sleep,” I remarked, brushing his cheek with the tips of my fingers.  
  
“Am I not sweet when I am awake?” he challenged with great humour.  
  
“No. You are dreadful,” I declared, laughing. “Absolutely horrid and I want nothing to do with you.” I bent my head forward and kissed him to affirm my statement.  
  
“I am not certain that I wish to ever awaken then,” he declared musingly.  
  
“That would be a boon for the criminal class,” I pointed out.  
  
“True,” he agreed, kissing me back.  
  
We got fairly distracted with one another for a while. I was actually a bit surprised at myself. We had certainly been active that afternoon, and I did not think that I would be in the mood for more amorous activity for a while. I was mistaken.  
  
This time he was lying over me. I held myself to him and he understood and responded, his eyes shut in ecstasy as he thrust and I thrust back.  
  
And then we heard it.  
  
We paused. A look of bafflement crossed his fine features. “What in heaven’s name is that?” I asked in a low voice.  
  
Sherlock held one graceful hand up, frowning in concentration, his head cocked to one side as he listened intently. I listened as well, and was the first to discern the source of the peculiar noise that had disturbed our lovely time together.  
  
It was rhythmic. It was hard. It was hauntingly familiar.  
  
Oh. I smiled as I realised to what we were listening. He was still frowning.  
  
“Oh, my love…” I whispered. “It is merely another couple enjoying each other.”  
  
“Is it?” he demanded in complete confusion.  
  
“Yes, my sweet. Other couples make just as much noise as we do—”  
  
“We do not do that!” His sudden declaration alarmed me. He seemed perturbed.  
  
“Well… yes we do,” I told him calmly. “We most certainly do.”  
  
“What do you mean?” He pulled away from me to sit up and scowl.  
  
“Are you not aware that when we are together—particularly when your mouth is on me—we both… that is, we both… Sherlock, between the bed creaking, the headboard hitting the plaster, and both of us making the most obscene noises—it is as noisy as it is untidy,” I concluded.  
  
“Oh,” he offered weakly.  
  
“It’s all right. It’s fine. We do just tend to get a bit… loud.”  
  
“As loud as that?” he demanded as a particularly energetic shout reached our ears.  
  
“Well, not here in a public inn, but in our own rooms, yes. Yes, we do. We creak and we thump and we shout, and it’s all fine.”  
  
“But we make none of those noises here, do we?” he replied slowly; thoughtfully.  
  
“No. We do not. We must remain as quiet as possible,” I responded evenly.  
  
There was one of those moments when I truly wonder about and question my mad man’s sanity.  
  
“So then… remain silent,” was all that he said. And then he ducked his head down and his hand flashed across my thigh and I was—transported.  
  
I found myself sitting up against the headboard, grasping the pillows as I fought for breath. Nothing—there was nothing like that in the world. It was as if his mouth had been somehow moulded to fit my stiff organ. It was glorious.  
  
I opened my mouth… and he stopped.  
  
“Shhh,” he admonished, quiet seriously. “Not a sound. If we can hear them, they can hear us.”  
  
And then I realised exactly what his game was and I wanted to protest and I found that I could not. Instead I closed my mouth and nodded and he bent his head and continued his attack.  
  
“Oh God, Sherlock, I am going to…” I managed in a hoarse whisper.  
  
One long arm reached out, took up a pillow, and pressed it gently to my mouth as I shouted my muffled ecstasy into its folds.  
  
*  
  
Three days and we had accomplished an incredible amount of research—even accounting for our rather energetic activities each night. It appears that the challenge of remaining silent during certain activities makes those activities madly enticing. However, Sherlock, being Sherlock, no matter how much we were enjoying sharing our room, decided it was time to move to the next village.  
  
I did not argue. I knew that he needed to be kept engaged so he did not fall into one of his black moods, which would be somewhat disastrous whilst away from home. So we moved on to the next village and the next inn and the next local inquiries.  
  
*  
  
If anyone named Sherlock Holmes ever says, “The edge of the embankment appears to be perfectly sound” and “We will not need to get that close to it,” do not listen to him. He has no idea of what he is speaking.  
  
I learned this lesson in a decidedly unpleasant manner. We had been having a less than lovely day already. It was raining, on and off, and unseasonably chilly. We had been prepared for this, of course, with our good, thick outer clothes—Sherlock in his thick travelling-cloak and a deerstalker, which served the dual purpose of keeping the rain out of his eyes and off the back of his neck, and I in my Norfolk jacket and cap. For once Sherlock had even foregone his elegant boots and was wearing, as was I, sturdy boots with thick soles. They had been doing an admirable job of keeping our feet dry and warm, but after so many hours tramping through the sodden landscape, even they were soaked through.  
  
I longed to be back in our comfortable rooms, warm and dry. We I [the doctor had struck out the word “we” and inserted the singular pronoun] had found a very nice homely inn. The food was excellent; the rooms tidy; the beds comfortable—and the best bit was that although we each had a single room, the rooms were adjoining—I had a single bed and he a larger one. It was so pleasant, in fact, that I had convinced my mad detective to make it “home” for a bit, and to take daily jaunts into the countryside all around it, picking a different direction on the compass each day. He had agreed to my plan and it had been working well.  
  
“Sherlock, do you think we could return to the inn soon?” I asked.  
  
He turned and looked me up and down, a frown marring the beauty of his delicate features. “Oh, John!” he exclaimed. “I am sorry. This weather must be causing you a great deal of discomfort.”  
  
“It is,” I admitted.  
  
“All right. Let us return along this embankment. We might discover some additional samples on our return trek.”  
  
“Thank you,” I told him.  
  
We trudged along in silence for a while. Both of us were in such a habit of searching for plants that we continued to scan the countryside as we went along.  
  
That and Sherlock’s excellent eyesight was to be our undoing.  
  
We had been walking for no more than ten minutes when he paused. We were moving briskly, side by side; he was on the embankment side of our path.  
  
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “There is some digitalis.”  
  
I stopped and peered in the direction in which he was now pointing. “White flowers?” I noted. “We have not gotten a sample of that.”  
  
“We have now,” he replied a bit smugly.  
  
“Brilliant deduction,” I replied, smiling a bit. I peered at the plant more closely now. “It is a bit close to the edge of the embankment,” I noted.  
  
He tipped his head and considered my statement for a few seconds before concluding, “We will not need to get that close to it. The plant is within reach.”  
  
“Are you certain about that? I really do not think that getting too close would be safe.”  
  
“It will be fine,” he commented confidently. He headed towards the edge.  
  
“Everything is so muddy. It looks a bit unstable to me.”  
  
“The edge of the embankment appears to be perfectly sound,” he noted.  
  
“We can return tomorrow, when the mud is dried up a bit.”  
  
“I do not wish to waste time returning to an area that we have already explored. We are here now. The plant is here now. It will be the work of seconds for me to gather some of it.”  
  
He did have a point, I realised. It would be a poor use of our time and efforts to be so close to a needed sample and not to gather it.  
  
“All right, but would you please be careful?”  
  
“Of course, John!” he exclaimed impatiently, heading toward the edge.  
  
I admit it—I enjoy being correct and him being mistaken. It does not happen very often and he gets so terribly flustered. However, in this instance, I ended up wishing that, as it usually happened, he had been correct.  
  
He went down because the edge of the embankment was not close to being stable, and it gave way under his feet. I went down because as I leapt forward in an attempt to save him, I slid in the mud, and despite my best efforts I could not prevent my rapid descent.  
  
I can honestly report that a too-thin, too-angular detective is not the most comfortable object on which to land. I would certainly have done better to alight, as he had done, directly in the mud. But there we were—him sprawled out, face-down, and I on top of him. I scrambled to lift myself off him, but could not get a purchase for either my hands or feet stable enough to rise. That he was struggling to throw me off simultaneously was not assisting in the matter. Finally, though, he slid one way and I slid the other and landed on a tussock of grass.  
  
Relieved of my weight, he managed to grasp some grass with one flailing hand and to pull himself upright. He was now on his knees and panting.  
  
“Breathing a bit difficult?” I commented drily.  
  
“I apparently do not exhibit any amphibious qualities,” he responded thoughtfully.  
  
And then we both began to laugh.  
  
It was so very ludicrous. Here we were, two gentlemen and inhabitants of one of the largest cities in the world, quite literally covered from head to toe in good, thick, English mud.  
  
“I must extract myself from this precarious position,” he finally sputtered, attempting to wipe his face clean with hands that were more mud than skin.  
  
Our humour soon left us, however, as we struggled to regain the top of the embankment. Our efforts were laborious and despite the cool air left both of us overheated. The mud drying on our skin was terribly uncomfortable. I realised that I had gotten some in my right eye. It was watering and so painful that I could not keep that eye open, making all of my actions twice as challenging as I fought to judge distances. I was afraid that Sherlock had inhaled some of the muck. He was coughing terribly.  
  
Finally we attained the path again. I breathed a sigh of relief and Sherlock shook himself like a wet dog. It was only then that I realised how heavy his great cloak must have become; how stiff and cumbersome. My own jacket was not nearly as large and had not been as much of a hindrance, and—I do have to admit—because I had landed on him, I was not quite as drenched as he.  
  
As we climbed, I had been silently debating—would it be better to remove our outerwear for the trek back to the inn—which would take roughly an hour—or to keep it on? Considering the additional weight of the sodden wool on his slender frame, I decided that removing it was probably the better approach.  
  
“Take off your cloak,” I instructed as I began to clumsily unbutton my jacket, my fingers and the fabric stiff with mud. “I know you will feel cold at first, but if we walk briskly, we will warm ourselves as we proceed.”  
  
He nodded, still coughing, and likewise began to fumble with the fastenings on his garment.  
  
He had lost his hat, I noted.  
  
With both of us now shivering but feeling much lighter, we struck out in the direction of “home.”  
  
My head began to ache as I struggled to move forward confidently. With my eye still shut, I felt off balance. I was, for once, in front—his idea so that he could note if I stumbled—and I set an extremely brisk pace. We did not speak one word until we reached the edge of the village.  
  
“We are going to attract quite a bit of unwanted attention,” I noted as the terrain changed from soft grass and mud to cobblestone.  
  
“Yes… John!” He darted forward to steady me as my wet boots slid on the slick cobbles.  
  
“Thank you,” I murmured as I felt his bony fingers dig into my arm, and I did not rebuke him when I felt him—ever so briefly—squeeze my hand.  
  
“Oh, misters!” The lovely young lady who acted as the inn’s maid of all work—her name was Alice and her hair was the loveliest shade of red I had ever seen—ran over to us as we entered. “Whate’er tha’ been doin’—on th’ moor in this weather?” Despite the extremity of our discomfort, I smiled tiredly at her. Her broad Yorkshire accent was charming.  
  
“We were collecting more of our specimens,” I explained. I had chatted with her several times over the past week and had explained, in abbreviated fashion, our explorations. She was very sharp and understood immediately the importance of our research. I was impressed. But now she was more like a mother hen, clucking over us.  
  
“Get thysen t’ tha rooms an’ I’ll carry up your tea into yur room—an’ plenty o’ hot water. Undress thysen an’ give I’ t’ me an’ I’ll see t’ th’ cleanin’.”  
  
“Yes. Thank you. Come along, Holmes.”  
  
He coughed and dolefully followed me up the stairs.  
  
“My poor Sherlock,” I said as soon as we were in his room with the door firmly shut. “Do you need assistance?”  
  
“No, John,” he rasped. You should go into your room and get dressed. And you need to bathe your eye.”  
  
“Yes. Excellent idea.”  
  
I left him fumbling with his boots and was soon fumbling with my own. My eye smarted and watered and my head ached. My skin itched and my scars felt tight and dreadful. I had to positively peel the mud-soaked layers of my clothing off. I felt a bit guilty about how muddy I got the towels, but I did not have an alternative.  
  
Soon enough I was stripped bare and redressed in lovely, warm, dry clothing. It felt glorious—even if, because we were not in our own homely rooms, that meant being completely dressed with collar and tie; waistcoat and coat and stockings and fresh boots. I knocked on the door that joined my room to Sherlock’s, then entered without waiting for a response.  
  
He was clearly moving much more slowly than myself. He had managed to remove his mucky clothing and found clean drawers and vest, and that was as far as he had managed. He was sitting despondently on his bed, one stocking in his hand and one on the mattress next to him.  
  
“Sherlock?” I queried anxiously.  
  
“How is your eye? You should bathe it,” he commented tightly. He swallowed and grimaced.  
  
“What is the matter?” I asked in concern. “I mean, other than the obvious.”  
  
He looked at me, his eyes red. Damn.  
  
“Does your head hurt? And your throat?” I demanded, moving to stand in front of him. I tipped his head up and examined him carefully. He nodded and coughed. I sighed. “My poor darling. Let me get all this muddy stuff out of here and you into bed, all right? I will ask Alice to bring up chamomile tea for you—or would you like some sherry?”  
  
“I want to do it for you,” he replied. He grimaced again.  
  
“What do you want to do for me?” I was puzzled.  
  
“Bathe your eye. Take…” he coughed, “care of you.”  
  
“What is this all about?” I felt the back of his neck. He was warm. “I think you are ill, my sweetheart. I do not need you to take care of me. I need to take care of you.”  
  
“But you are always…” he coughed again, “taking care of me.”  
  
“Yes, I am, and I always will. I feel fine.” I cupped his cheek in my hand. “Now that I have all that wet clothing off and I am clean and dry, I feel just fine.”  
  
“But your eye…”  
  
“I will bathe my own eye,” I responded somewhat strictly. I turned my head; there had been a quiet knock on my door. “Get under the bedclothes,” I instructed him sternly as I went back into my room and opened the door.  
  
Alice was there with a large can of hot water. She was a healthy country girl and seemed to bear its weight with barely a twitch of her well-formed arms.  
  
“I brought thee water; tea’ll be up soon as I manage it.”  
  
“Thank you very much,” I replied.  
  
“Yur… Mr Holmes… he’s ill? He dint look righ’ when you came in. Wha’ can I get for him?”  
  
“Chamomile tea and some sherry would be most welcome,” I replied, taking the heavy container of water from her.  
  
“Aye. Sensible. I’ll take these.” She bent and gathered the mud-soaked clothing I had left carelessly on the floor. “Wha’ ‘bout his?” She indicated Sherlock’s room with her head, her arms full of wool and mud.  
  
“I should get those for you. I am not certain… that is…”  
  
“He’s in bed an’ no’ decent,” she agreed. Her candour was charming.  
  
I knocked gently and entered Sherlock’s room again. He had (much to my astonishment) followed my instructions and was under the bedclothes, his eyes shut. He did not respond to nor indicate in any way that he was aware of my presence. I gathered up his muddy apparel and brought it back through my own room.  
  
“He is resting,” I reported as I transferred the pile to her capable arms.  
  
“I’ll bring tea righ’ away,” she replied, bobbing an abbreviated curtsy and bustling out of the room.  
  
I, of course, bustled back to Sherlock. I sat gently on his bed and stroked the curls—still full of mud, I noted—away from his forehead. “You need a wash,” I pointed out.  
  
“Mmm,” he agreed sleepily.  
  
“I’ll do it, shall I?” I poured some of the hot water into his basin and, finding a cloth, soaked and wrung it out. I began to gently wipe the dried mud from his face. “Oh, Sherlock,” I murmured, feeling the heat from his skin. “You really are quite ill.” I looked down at him as I wiped the flaking earth off his pale face, slowly revealing a bright red spot on each cheek. I realised, rather belatedly, that other than during our little adventure he had been unusually quiet since about midday and had refused any of the hearty lunch that had been packed for us by the proprietor’s cook. “My darling,” I whispered, leaning down close to him and laying my hand on his temple. “This is not from our little misfortune, is it? You were feeling ill before we landed in the mud.”  
  
He did not reply; with Sherlock that was generally an admission of guilt.  
  
“Why did you not tell me? Why did you insist on staying out on the moor?” I rinsed and wrung out the cloth and began to carefully work the half-dried mud from his hair. “Why do you do this to yourself?”  
  
He remained silent except for the dreadful, wet cough.  
  
“After tea I am going to go out and find a chemist. You need a good horehound mixture.” It was a cure from our parents’ or even grandparents’ time, but it did work.  
  
Alice brought our tea. Sherlock refused to eat anything, but I did get some good, hot tea into him and then a good amount of sherry. I knew that it would both help his cough and send him to sleep; once he was down I would make inquiries to find the closest chemist.  
  
*  
  
It was quite late. I had managed to get some of the cough mixture into my darling (it was an old remedy but it was effective and he liked it because of the treacle), and all I desired now was for him to sleep. I stroked his arm and he flinched. He was very warm and I was having a difficult time getting him to stay under the bedcovers. I had changed him into his nightshirt and he kept fussing with it; plucking at the sleeves and fidgeting with the buttons.  
  
I was genuinely concerned. He was often incapacitated but rarely had he run a fever so high.  
  
“I am going to fetch my nightclothes and I will return instantly,” I whispered to him. He did not respond. I did exactly as I had said, and I changed my clothes in his room. I had no intention whatsoever of being more than five feet away from him for the rest of the night.  
  
*  
  
It was about four o’clock when his thrashing woke me. He was absolutely blazingly hot. He shoved the bedclothes off himself (and me) viciously and sat up.  
  
“Oh, Sherlock. My love. Lie back down.” I attempted to get him to do so. He pushed me away.  
  
“Hot!” he declared.  
  
“I know. I know. All right.” I got out of bed and fished around for the cloth. I poured some fresh water into the basin, dampened the cloth, and tried to apply it to his face.  
  
He pushed at my hands. It was apparent that he was not at all aware of where he was or who I was.  
  
“No!” he declared angrily, slapping at my hand.  
  
“It will make you feel better,” I replied patiently.  
  
“No! Not you, Mycroft. Want Mother.”  
  
Oh, my poor darling. He was really lost in his fever dreams. I supposed it made sense in a way—what little I had gleaned about his family seemed to imply that his father had been absent and that his elder brother had for the most part fulfilled the role of father and head of household. I was not certain if his mother had been truly present in his life, but as he called for her, I presumed that, at least when he was at his most low, she had been.  
  
I had attended many patients suffering from fevers that rendered them insensible, and I knew that arguing with him was not worth any effort on my part. Instead, I attempted to soothe and humour him.  
  
“Mother is away right now. I am going to take care of you,” I told him quietly.  
  
It seemed to be effective. He nodded. “My head aches so, My,” he admitted. “Everything hurts,” he groaned.  
  
“I will treat your head, but first I want you to take more of this mixture for your cough,” I told him firmly. I had heard his brother Mycroft speak to him enough that I knew that this was the appropriate tone.  
  
“Yes, My,” he replied obediently.  
  
I dosed him with the horehound mixture and encouraged him to have some more sherry, which was on the table in front of his fire. “All right,” I said firmly, wetting the towel. “Now for your poor head.”  
  
I finally got him back to sleep, but it was only after an hour of gentle ministrations. I collapsed readily next to him as he finally stilled.  
  
*  
  
The next day was a blur of cough mixture, cool clothes, chamomile tea, and sherry. Despite the irritation of his throat and chest he kept asking for his cigarettes and I continued to light them for him, simply to keep him content. I felt so very guilty. If I had noted the earliest symptoms, which I realised had begun to affect him at about midday, I could possibly have obviated the worst of his illness. At the very least, I could have eliminated our horrid mud bath, which in his case had (not surprisingly) raised a rash on his sensitive skin.  
  
Our girl Alice had brought up breakfast. She uncomplainingly carried away our pots and made sure that we had clean towels. However, our midday meal was brought up by the cook, which surprised me. “Where is Alice?” I inquired after letting her in to put the heavy tray on the small table in my room. I had been looking forward to seeing her. She had a lightness of spirit that I found cheering, and I needed cheering that afternoon as I watched over my poor ailing sweetheart.  
  
“Oh, yur a doctor, aye?” she asked. She appeared upset.  
  
“Yes, I am. Is she ill? Is she in need of one?”  
  
“She is tha’ bad, aye. Coughin’, bad pain in th’ throat an’ head, an’ she’s terrible hot.”  
  
“Where is she?” I demanded. “I shall attend to her at once.”  
  
Having received directions to her room, up under the eaves, I went into Sherlock’s room with the hot tea, hoping to get him to take some. I discovered that he was sound asleep, and I did not want to wake him. I gathered my instruments, tucked them into my bag, and headed upstairs.  
  
*  
  
Yes, poor Alice had been struck with the same illness as Sherlock. Its effects on her were identical. I did what I could for her. She was grateful and sweet despite being terribly uncomfortable. She seemed particularly distressed by fatigue, which in comparison to her usual active nature was understandable and rather alarming. I went down to the kitchen, where I found the cook, the proprietor, and his wife seated at the table, all looking quite disturbed.  
  
“There are many more people fallen ill,” the proprietor’s wife told me grimly. She was clearly not a native of Yorkshire. Sherlock would have been able to identify her place of birth and probably all the places she had lived since simply by listening to her. “The doctor can hardly visit each patient quickly enough.”  
  
“Who? Where are they?”  
  
And that is how I became involved in the most intimate of people’s lives in a vibrant village in northern Yorkshire whilst my beloved lay in bed, suffering as much as any of its native inhabitants.  
  
*  
  
Following the proprietor’s directions, I found my way to the office of the village doctor. I was surprised to find him there, but it became clear that it had been serendipity that allowed us to meet. He had been out, attending to patients, for two full days with barely a pause to eat or sleep, and was now in his office only for a short time.  
  
I introduced myself, explained my background, and then quite simply asked for a map, a list of addresses, and a brief note to present at the closest chemist shop to obtain what I could for treatment. I was welcomed heartily and almost immediately found myself back out on the street, map in hand, seeking out the chemist.  
  
*  
  
I was not surprised to find it crowded. It appeared that most of the people were there on the behalf of family members, as no one who I saw displayed the characteristics of the illness themselves—no pale faces with red cheeks. No coughs. This in itself was chilling, as it spoke to the severity of the illness that the patients were unable to fetch any treatment for themselves.  
  
I thrust my way through the crowd, explaining rather forcefully that I was a medical man. It worked. I was permitted to move directly up to the counter and explained my purpose to the pharmacist.  
  
“Glad he has some help,” he nodded. “Come to the back.” He let me around the counter and into the back room where the mixtures and pills were made up. His apprentice was busy doing just that—rather frantically, actually.  
  
Despite the urgency of his actions, he paused briefly. “Yu’re from London,” he commented. “You an’ tha’ tall man been stayin’ at th’ inn.”  
  
“Yes, that is correct. I am Doctor Watson and I am here to help Doctor Grayson with this outbreak.”  
  
“Ma sister’s ill,” he stated laconically.  
  
“Where is she? I will see to her.”  
  
“You already done that—she’s Alice.”  
  
“Oh! Yes. I do wish to dose her but be assured she is safely in bed.”  
  
He nodded, already having returned to his task.  
  
I examined the recipe he had in front of him, from which he was making a particular mixture. I nodded approvingly. I was familiar with this mixture and knew that it would help ease the fever in most patients. I was not eager to use laudanum for their discomfort, as none of them needed the soporific qualities of that particular mixture—most of the patients would, I knew, want to do or be able to do little else _but_ sleep—but as I had done with Sherlock, I planned to recommend sherry or whisky or even wine for a soothing effect.  
  
I watched him work for a few minutes. I noted that he was adding some ingredients to his mixture that did not appear in this recipe. I inquired and he explained; he was quite familiar and adept with herbal remedies and actually grew many plants known for their medicinal qualities himself.  
  
“That is brilliant,” I commented.  
  
He nodded—clearly a laconic young man—and went on patiently stirring his mixture.  
  
*  
  
The next few days were exhausting. As I had promised Doctor Grayson, I faithfully attended to the patients whose names and addresses he wrote down for me. The families were, for the most part, surprisingly welcoming, considering that I was a stranger, but so many of them were grateful for any medical assistance for their loved ones that it apparently superseded any suspicions they might have of “that doctor from London,” as I came to be known.  
  
I felt rather helpless. There was very little I could do for the sufferers of this dreadful illness beyond some basic treatment for fever and cough. I knew that keeping the patients in bed, hopefully sleeping as much as possible, would help. My appearance was a comfort, at least, and I was able to share the good news that although the illness was a severe one, it was not fatal. The worst of it seemed to be over in three or four days, and although the victims were weak and achy, most of them survived the high fever with little long-lasting damage.  
  
*  
  
Sometimes when I write these most intimate of my memories, I find it difficult to admit to certain shortcomings—and some blatant mistakes that I have made. Why would I want to remind myself of missing a symptom, or incurring a debt that I could not pay? I obviously do not forget these incidents. On the contrary, I am often tormented for months by regret.  
  
But, no, I am a brave man. I was a soldier. If I cannot admit to my mistakes, I may be doomed to repeat them. So I will admit here that yes, in the intense activity of those few days, when I rarely slept and seldom ate, I found myself only stopping by my room at the inn for a clean shirt and a few hours rest.  
  
It was not that I forgot about Sherlock. It was that other patients needed me more, or at least at the time I thought that they did. I would look in on him, of course, and most of the time he was sleeping. Once I found him sitting up in bed, reading and smoking a cigarette. He did not look up or show any awareness that I was there, so I crept back out without disturbing him.  
  
The cook had been taken ill and was home; my understanding was that she was being looked after by her husband. With Alice, their other maid, and the hall boy also ill, the proprietor and his wife were excessively busy. It seemed that theirs was one of the few inns in the village at which hot suppers could still be obtained—the others being closed due to illness—and with the number of families thrown into disarray by the circumstances, there was a much greater demand for their services than usual. Their only saving grace was that other than Sherlock and myself, they did not have any guests staying with them.  
  
Finally—thank God—the worst of the outbreak seemed to be over. Doctor Grayson added no new names to my list. Most of my original patients were weak and sore, but the high fevers had passed. I conferred with the doctor and he agreed that I could safely stop my activities; he would be able to attend to the remaining cases on his own.  
  
He thanked me profusely and then told me, quite strictly, to go to the inn and get some sleep.  
  
I ate a hearty stew in the dining room of the inn. The proprietor’s wife, who looked exhausted, reported that Alice was beginning to recover, and that she had been tended to by her brother (when he could get away from the chemist). Their parents were travelling from their farm and would, as soon as she could travel, take Alice back home with them to recuperate completely.  
  
The food had amazing recuperative powers for me. I was still tired, of course, but I felt that now I could get a solid night’s sleep and would be fine by morning. I headed up to our rooms.  
  
This is the part that I do not wish to admit, even to myself. For a very short time, I had quite forgotten about Sherlock. I blame the exhaustion and dizzying activity of the past few days; as I ate I was not actually thinking about anything but crawling into bed. By the time I got to the top of the stairs, though, I had come to my senses.  
  
I burst directly into his room.  
  
The room was dark and fetid. I observed plates of uneaten food, dried out and unappetizing, on the table by the fireplace. The fire itself was nearly out; the ashes had not been raked out for several days. I wrinkled my nose at the odour; clearly no one had emptied slops either.  
  
He lay quietly in the bed, turned away from the door.  
  
“Sherlock?” I was across the room and on the bed next to him in an instant. I rolled him gently towards myself.  
  
“Hullo, John,” he murmured. “The worst is finally over?”  
  
“How did you…” I began. “No. Never mind. God, Sherlock. I am so sorry. I have been so engaged with other patients—”  
  
“It is understandable. A great many people needed your skills.” He said the words slowly, as if the simple action of speaking took almost too much effort for him.  
  
I observed him carefully. His lips were dried and cracked. His eyes were red and dim. His ordinarily thin frame looked positively skeletal. “When was the last time you had anything to eat or drink?” I demanded, fumbling under the covers for his wrist so I could feel his pulse. At least his skin no longer burned. I raised his hand to my lips and kissed his fingertips gently.  
  
“I am not certain,” he replied. “You should go to bed. You are exhausted.”  
  
“I would much prefer to attend to you,” I replied sharply.  
  
To my great surprise, he pulled his hand away from mine and rolled away from me again. “No,” he said in a voice so soft I could barely hear him. “Go to bed. I do not wish for you to attend to me.”  
  
I was grieved. Did he really mean that? Had he decided that my neglect indicated that I no longer wished to care for him at all? “Sherlock,” I admonished, leaning over him. “Of course I will attend to you.”  
  
“Go away, John.”  
  
Speechless, I rose and left his room for mine.  
  
*  
  
As soon as I was alone, the effects of the past several days made themselves known. I fumbled my clothing off and, pulling a nightshirt over my head, I tumbled into the soft bed. Even with my concern for Sherlock prominent in my mind, I fell asleep almost instantly.  
  
*  
  
I woke at some time in the early grey hours of predawn. I could sense that there was someone in my room. My head felt heavy as I turned it to see who it was.  
  
It was Sherlock. He was standing at the threshold of the door that joined our rooms, a blanket draped over his shoulders; his feet were bare. The room was still fairly dark, but I could make out his features. He looked at me solemnly, and, noting that I had opened my eyes, turned and without a sound returned to his room.  
  
*  
  
I stayed in bed nearly ten hours, and rose only because I was ravenous. I was delighted to find a breakfast tray already in my room and did not bother dressing before I uncovered it and began to feast on the good country bread and butter and sausage. Satiated at last, I dressed—I had one clean shirt remaining—and then I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and knocked on Sherlock’s door. I waited but, hearing no summonses, I entered.  
  
Sherlock was sitting up in his bed as I had seen him before, smoking a cigarette and reading by the wan light coming in the window. His candles were long since burned down and the lamp had not been refilled. He looked up slowly from his book at me. I cannot describe his visage except to say that I never want to see that expression on his face again.  
  
“Good morning, John,” he said evenly. “Are you well?”  
  
“Food and sleep were both welcome,” I replied. “I am quite well.”  
  
He turned back to his book. “I am returning to London,” he announced, his eyes fixed on the page.  
  
“ _You_ are? You mean _we_ are.”  
  
“You can do as you like. There is a train this afternoon. I intend to be on it.”  
  
I could not bear it any longer. I leapt forward, onto the bed, and pulled the book away from him. “Sherlock, I am so very sorry. I have neglected you horribly. How are you feeling?” I attempted to touch his face, but he pulled sharply away from me.  
  
“I was ill. I no longer am,” he replied. His tone was not injured or angry, which is what I expected and deserved. Instead, it was—cold. So horribly cold. His voice; his eyes—it was as if he wore a mask. This cut me to the very quick.  
  
“Please, my love,” I begged, laying my hand on his shoulder. “Please—be angry with me. I deserve it.”  
  
“Go away, John,” he said sadly.  
  
“No. I am not going away. You need to be bathed. You need to eat and to drink something. You need a fresh nightshirt. You should not be straining your eyes by reading. I will read to you. Would you like that?”  
  
“I wish for you to leave me alone.”  
  
“I wish to take care of you,” I begged.  
  
“I wish to take care of myself. Get out.”  
  
I left him alone and returned to my room, heartbroken.  
  
*  
  
I sat quietly. After a while, I heard him stir. He was clearly attempting to dress; I heard the distinct creak of the leather straps on his bag. Then I heard the creak of his mattress, followed by a long silence. It made me uneasy. I could not bear it any longer. I rose and, without knocking, entered his room.  
  
He sat on the edge of his bed, still in his filthy nightshirt, his knees drawn up to his chest; his arms wrapped around his legs and his head down—face hidden from me. He had indeed drawn clean clothing from his bag before apparently finding it too great a task for his diminished constitution. I stood in front of him and laid my hands on his shoulders. He was shivering. “Please look at me,” I begged. He raised his head. His eyes were red and watering.  
  
“I… cannot…” he tried to tell me.  
  
I shook my head and laid a finger to his lips—rough and dry as rocks. “Then do not,” I admonished. “I am here now and I am heartily sorry that I neglected you so horribly and I fully intend to rectify my error this very instant.”  
  
He shook his head.  
  
“Please, my love. What is the matter? Why do you not wish me to attend to you? You need me to so very much. You are still quite ill.”  
  
“I do not wish to be such a burden as I have been,” he rasped. “Observing how much others needed you made me realise how dependent I have become on you. How much you do for me. It is… too much.”  
  
“It is not too much, my darling. I love you and I love to take care of you.”  
  
“No. No more,” he begged, struggling to turn away from me.  
  
I could tell that the argument was exhausting him as much as his attempt at dressing had. I leaned forward and kissed his forehead and he stilled. “Sherlock,” I admonished gently, “I love you and that means that it is never too much to take care of you. I was prevented from doing so by so many other people being ill, not because I tired of it.”  
  
“So many other people needed you,” he protested. “I am just one person.”  
  
“Yes, they did and yes you are, but you are the one person who is the most important to me.”  
  
“Am I?” he wondered.  
  
“Yes, of course you are. No one will ever mean as much to me as you do.”  
  
“Oh.” He looked surprised for a second, and then he just looked worn out and pale and beaten.  
  
“Yes, ‘oh’, my ridiculous love. Now, would you please allow me to bathe you and dress you and then will you please eat something for me?”  
  
“Yes, John.”  
  
“Thank you. That is what I needed to hear from you. Lie down and I will fetch some hot water and get you cleaned up. You are, to be blunt, rather nasty.”  
  
*  
  
We returned to London three days later, when he was finally well enough--in my official medical opinion—to travel. He was still so weak he could hardly bear the weight of his thick wool travelling-cloak—and I had had to purchase another hat for him—but we were finally able to bid the proprietor and his wife farewell.  
  
I left a note for Alice and sent one to her brother, wishing them both well and inviting them to correspond with me if they desired.  
  
He slept on the train and even in the cab from the station and woke just as we arrived home. I had never been so relieved to see the familiar door of 221 and the friendly face of Mrs Hudson as she opened that door in greeting. Our holiday was over.  
  
[There is a postscript to this manuscript in the doctor’s hand: _I did eventually publish our concept for an index of the multiple names of deadly plants and their effects that was well accepted. Others took up the idea and over the course of time such an index was completed, with some plants bearing an astonishing dozen or more local names. Sherlock ultimately declined to co-author the piece no matter how much I insisted; he felt that his name would lend a notoriety to the endeavour that would prevent it being taken seriously, and, based on his suggestion, I published my work under a pseudonym for the same reason._ ]  
  
[There is also a note in Sherlock’s hand: _I do not wish to read the end of this manuscript again. It is not something I care to revisit. I do like the beginning though. Can we take another holiday? I wish to explore Sussex._ ]  
  



End file.
